


Snakebite

by wheel_pen



Series: Venkii [13]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Mila are trapped on a planet, and Jon might be dying of a snakebite. This story is unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snakebite

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Venkii are humans who left Earth long ago, and have a few extra enhancements by now. Mila is a young Venkii woman who has joined the crew of the Enterprise, in Engineering. She can communicate with the ship in a special way.
> 
> 2\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

It was an impossible situation.

Mila didn't think she would die. The diamagnetic storm dispersed all the waves of energy she attempted to send to the ship as easily as it swirled the tiny mineral grains from the planet's surface; but it would blow itself out in just a day or two. She had shelter in the cave, which was dry and cool, but not _too_ cool. She could live without data for a couple of days, if she had to, but so far the hand scanner was still working, and that was better than nothing—a snack when you wanted a full meal, but nourishment nonetheless. Of actual food, she had none, but again, a couple of days was survivable. The water she would have to ration, but she thought it would last. She had no choice but think it would last, rather, because there was no chance of getting more. But the point was, in the end, she would most likely be fine.

Captain Archer was another story.

The hand scanner wasn't much good for medical purposes. They hadn't loaded it with that kind of data, after all. It was filled with metallurgical and mineral composition analyses—in other words, it could tell her what was in the rocks that made up the cave, but it couldn't tell her how deadly the poison circulating through the Captain's body was. So in the end it was pretty much useless.

They were calling it a snake—it looked vaguely like one, not that Mila had ever seen a snake except in pictures, but it had slithered out of the sand when they had accidentally disturbed its nest and, taking exception to their trespass, struck out forcefully. There were now two perfect little pinholes in Archer's ankle, though you could hardly see them anymore for the swelling.

She _thought_ she'd gotten a message through to _Enterprise_ , before the storm completely surrounded them and they'd limped into this cave. But no help could arrive from the ship until the storm was over anyway, and Mila couldn't transport them back on her own until such time, either.

So they sat in the cave and waited. She made a tourniquet for his leg and tied it tightly, as instructed, but it wasn't long before the flesh started to swell and turn a sickly shade of purple anyway. Within hours they were slitting the leg of his uniform open to relieve the pressure, just a little bit.

Frankly, Mila was terrified. She didn't know what to do. All the things she _could_ do, that she and she alone could do, were useless in this situation. And the person who was supposed to be in charge was the one slowly slipping away beside her. She felt she would be rescued. But the others would hate her, she was sure, if she let the Captain die. Trip would hate her. Not that _she_ wanted Archer to die, either.

It just seemed so ridiculous—all the dangers they'd been through, just in the time Mila had been aboard the ship, the invaders and the kidnappers and the attackers and the injuries and the diseases and all kinds of other bizarre space phenomena that threatened their fragile lives, and what would finally take him in the end? A snakebite. On what was supposed to be a simple mission to purchase supplies for the ship. Mila had never seen a desert before and Archer had elected, rather enthusiastically, to walk the half a kilometer from one village trading post to the next across a few sand dunes. At the time Mila had been learning about the unpleasantness of getting sand in one's boots and constantly squinting against the sun. Then the storm had come up, out of nowhere really, diminishing communication with the ship, and then the snake...

Archer stirred beside her, mumbling something that Mila didn't quite catch. "Here, have some water," she told him, lifting his head enough to pour a thin stream of liquid down his throat. He coughed a little, swallowed it, and then told her off for wasting the water. "I've got plenty," Mila lied easily, her tone no different from the usual hauteur. Even dying he was still thinking of his crew.

Archer liked to talk when he was stressed. It was an odd habit, Mila thought, but he said idle chatter helped to distract him, in a good way. He was telling her about his childhood in upstate New York, wherever that was. Almost everything about his life was foreign to her—not just the inconceivable idea of living on a planet, with landscapes and seasons and weather, held fast in one spot as far as a person could tell, but also growing up as an only child, when she and everyone she knew had been surrounded by multiple siblings. A famous and important father she could at least relate to; people _did_ have certain expectations, fair or not, of the captain's daughter, of who she would marry and what she would become, and many of them didn't hesitate to voice their disapproval and suspicion when she didn't turn out exactly as they had anticipated. Archer said his father hoped he'd become an engineer, too, follow in his footsteps. That he was actually a little disappointed when young Jon expressed more interest in piloting ships than building them.

Somehow they got onto the subject of families. Mila's younger sisters were starting to marry and have children, leaving her sticking out even _more_ obviously, as she always had. Children to the Venkii were the preservation of their race, of the Liberators' ideals; they were the continuation of the family line, which could be traced back to the original Earth-borns plucked from their terrestrial lives to soar among the stars. They were the vessels through which their parents could experience the universe anew, in all its wonder and beauty, and pour out the lessons and love they had learned from their _own_ parents. Motherhood was also, not incidentally, a great source of power for the Venkii women, amplifying and concentrating their already remarkable abilities. Mila knew of no one, no Venkii, who was physically able to have children and yet chose not to.

"Do you have any children, Captain?" Mila asked, never having really considered it before. She could understand the idea of not bringing one's children into space on a mission of early discovery; even Venkii ships could split apart, keeping most of the children separate and safe while crew members headed off for some dangerous endeavor—though she had never heard of families being divided this way for _years_. Still, she supposed that in the back of her mind, she had just _assumed_ that most, if not all, of the _Enterprise_ crew had spouses and children waiting patiently for them back on Earth.

"No, no kids," he revealed, his voice dry and scratchy.

Mila frowned. "Can't you have any?" Trip always told Mila she was too blunt, which was hilarious coming from him of all people, but now seemed hardly the time to quibble over etiquette.

Archer smirked, even though he didn't have the strength to turn his head and look at her. "I don't know," he admitted. "Never tried."

"That's weird," she judged, slightly unsettled. "Why not?"

"Just never got around to it, I guess," Archer finally answered. His tone was heavy on the irony. "Always thought I'd have time later."

"What, when you were _old_?" Mila shook her head, though the gesture was lost on him. "Doesn't seem very smart. And you haven't even any siblings."

"Seems like the Archer line is coming to a close pretty soon," he concurred, darkly amused. "Probably for the best. Survival of the fittest and all."

"What?" Mila asked in confusion.

He shook his head a little; never mind. "I mean, if we're not even smart enough to avoid trampling on snakes in the desert..."

"Well, you've got a good point," she conceded, and he actually laughed, or tried to.

They were quiet for a long time. She thought he'd fallen asleep, or passed out, though she could see the rise and fall of his chest still. His gravelly voice startled her when she heard it again. "Do you know..." He paused to take a rattling breath. "...what happened... to those kids?"

"The half-Coturnix?" Mila pulled her knees a little tighter under her chin, not wanting to dwell too much on the painful memories of her capture by the alien race. "My father did what he promised. He found homes for them on the ship."

Archer made an effort, then, to turn his head and open his eyes at her. After a moment she realized he wanted to make sure she was telling the truth. "They're _good_ homes," Mila insisted, as sincerely as she could. "My older sister adopted one, the youngest, to set the example for others." She picked at the torn knee of her uniform. "I think it was very... good of you, to stand up for them, Captain," she admitted, glancing back up at him. "My father isn't a _bad_ man, but—we've seen the universe in the same way for so long, sometimes it's hard to imagine anything else." He indicated he understood, to some extent. "I just wanted to tell you that." Before you died, but she at least had enough tact not to add that.

He heard the unmentioned addition anyway and smirked a little. "Anything else... you want to... get off your chest?"

"What?" she asked, frowning and slightly alarmed.

"To tell me?" he clarified, threatening to chuckle again.

"Oh." She thought a moment. "I like Trip quite a lot, and I think he likes me, too."

"No children on _Enterprise_ ," Archer mumbled, as forcefully as he could. "Too dangerous."

She ignored that, just as she'd ignored it every other time he'd mentioned it. She hadn't tried to get pregnant, true, which was a constant source of consternation for her mother, but she also felt that one of these days, when the time was right, and it would probably be right soon given Trip's affection for her, when it finally happened, the Captain would see that she'd been correct all along, that the benefits to the ship would far outweigh the disadvantages. That is, if the Captain lived to see that event at all.

Avoiding comment on his order, Mila continued with her last-minute revelations, unsure what exactly he was hoping for. "Porthos didn't chew up your sneakers. It was a practical joke by Travis that went wrong."

"What?" Archer coughed, genuinely startled.

"Trip and Malcolm convinced him not to say anything," she added knowingly. "They've been blackmailing him about it ever since, to get a share of the homemade treats his mother sends him."

"...the h—l?" Archer shook his head, or tried to. "Please, keep going."

"T'Pol sleeps in the nude."

That statement alone was nearly enough to revive him, it seemed. "Don't wanna know how you know that... No, really, I don't," he insisted when she started to open her mouth. She smiled at him, a real smile, and he smiled back. Oddly, it was a rare exchange, for two people who saw each other as often as they did. That realization made her sad, all of a sudden. Archer closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rock wall behind him. Then slumped sideways.

"Captain!" Mila sprang for him, carefully maneuvering him onto the floor. She shook his shoulder. "Captain?" He didn't respond. His breathing was present, but erratic. Slowly it evened out, leaving him unconscious but alive, for the moment.

Two hours later she had made her decision.

It was not one she undertook lightly. She knew the people she cared about would not fully understand why she had done it, although they would all have different objections. But she had thought it over, in the dark, alone for all intents and purposes, with nothing to _do_ but think, and it was the only way she knew to show honor to the man she had come to respect... especially when she had come to _realize_ how much she respected him so late.

She continued to turn it over in her mind all through the long, sleepless night, as the storm raged outside the cave. She played through all the scenarios in her mind. She prepared herself mentally to face them. She wasn't stalling; she wasn't afraid. But she wanted to wait until the last possible moment. Just to make sure of what she already knew.

The day, sometime, it was hard to tell with the sand blotting out the sun, she knew she had to act. Archer had never opened his eyes again or acknowledged her in any way, and his breaths had turned from shallow but rhythmic to irregular. It had to be now.

"Goodbye, Captain," Mila whispered, taking his limp hand in hers. Her nose tingled and her eyes burned, distracting her from the focus she needed to have right now, but Earth-borns seemed to value tears as a display of genuine emotion—it was fitting then, that she allow herself to shed a few. Then she curled up on the floor of the cave beside him, closed her eyes, and drifted away.

 

The shuttlepod had been ready to depart from practically the moment _Enterprise_ lost contact with Captain Archer and Mila. Trip had been all but living in it, revving its engine, for the past two days. Two of the people he cared about most in the universe were down on that planet, out of communication, with only Mila's disturbing, garbled message—something about a _bite_?—to give them any clues. Trip didn't need to be on the Bridge; he knew what would happen next. When the storm cleared, as T'Pol predicted it would shortly, either the First Officer's voice would come over the comm telling him that Archer and Mila had been contacted and were returning to the ship forthwith via transporter, or the silence of the Launch Bay would be broken by the voices of Trip's fellow crewmen arriving to join him in the landing party. The latter option wasn't necessarily a bad sign; leftover diamagnetic interference from the storm might just be preventing Mila from transporting back on her own. Or it could mean something had gone wrong down there. Or it could mean they had no idea what was going on down there.

All Trip could do was wait.

If they had to take the pod down, and they didn't really know what was waiting for them, T'Pol would send Malcolm along—just in case someone had gotten into trouble with the locals. Trip reasoned she would also want to send Phlox—just in case someone had gotten themselves injured, and the diamagnetic interference made the transporter too risky. If T'Pol didn't trust Trip to fly the pod, she would also send Travis. Not that Trip couldn't fly a d—n shuttlepod while he was—how had she put it? _Agitated_ —anyone who couldn't was a poor pilot to begin with, especially in Starfleet. But there was agitation, and then there was also possible navigational irregularities due to the storms, and if T'Pol didn't trust Trip to handle the combination of the two, Travis would be tapping his shoulder.

It was the crew Trip would send, were _he_ in command right now. He wouldn't let the d‑‑n fool engineer go along, too, that was for sure, because it was extremely unlikely that they'd need someone with his expertise in an emergency, and if there were delicate diplomacy to be done because of some kind of cultural misunderstanding, he was about the surest person on the senior staff to muck it up. But Trip was going anyway, because he _wasn't_ the one in command right now, and he knew T'Pol wouldn't order him to stay behind unless there was some kind of warp core emergency.

Trip's waiting was abruptly ended by the sound of the Launch Bay door whooshing open, followed by the cheerful patter of Dr. Phlox. He was enthusiastically explaining, to someone, about hunting for edible scorpions in some desert once. Or something. The someone turned out to be Malcolm, who made eye contact with Trip and gave him a steady nod as he entered the shuttlepod.

"Commander!" hailed Phlox vigorously, settling into one of the chairs with his medical kit. "Ready and waiting, I see."

"Any word from 'em?" Trip asked, starting to power up the pod. He knew the likely response.

"No," Reed confirmed soberly. "T'Pol says the storm's mostly cleared over their area, though." So they _should_ be able to respond... they just _couldn't_. Trip was glad Malcolm left that part unsaid.

"Uh, Commander, would you mind?" Trip turned back towards the hatch and saw Travis climbing in, a slightly sheepish look on his face. The ensign indicated the controls Trip sat before.

Trip rolled his eyes but said nothing, merely ceding the helm to Travis and sitting down beside Reed instead. Calling T'Pol up to argue with her would only delay the start of the rescue mission, and Trip had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that on this particular occasion, time was of the essence.

 

Malcolm looked a little green by the time Travis set the pod down on the shifting sands just outside the last village Archer and Mila had visited. Residual diamagnetic charges from the storm had left eddies of turbulence in the atmosphere, which Trip had to admit Travis navigated much more smoothly than _he_ would have. Although not having to concentrate on piloting the ship had left him with more time to brood.

As soon as the pod settled Trip was out of his seat, popping the hatch. Reed, shaking off his motion sickness like the professional security officer he was, grabbed Trip's shoulder and gave him a _look_. Trip sighed but stepped back and let the dark-haired man exit first, his eyes darting around the landscape like a hawk. Seeing nothing, Malcolm signaled for the others to join him.

Trip yanked the hand scanner he'd brought out of his pocket, swinging it wildly until it caught the coordinates of Mila's last transmission. He'd hoped to see two bright biosigns pulse to life on the screen, but the diamagnetic interference showed only ghostly images that flickered unreliably. "This way." He barely even noticed the grating sand or the lingering heat from the blood-red sun setting on the horizon.

The coordinates lay just over another sand dune, a small hollow near a cave. Trip didn't see anything unusual, except a few scrubby bushes and something that looked remarkably like a snake slithering away at top speed. Good thing it had spotted him and moved, because _he_ hadn't seen _it_ at all. Aside from the snake-like creature, there was no sign of movement around them.

"Let's try that cave," Malcolm reasoned. "Perhaps they took shelter there, during the storm." Trip nodded and followed him.

They both switched on their hand-held lamplights as they stepped into the dimness of the cave, already feeling the temperature drop. Sand piled up at the entrance, a remainder from the storm, and they pushed ahead cautiously. The cave took a sharp turn to the right, so the officers did as well. Was it Trip's imagination, or was there a faint glow ahead, in a small alcove in the wall?

"Oh, G-d," he breathed as their lamplights cast jittery shadows over the scene before them, previously lit only with the dying, drained lights Archer and Mila had on them.

Mila was curled on her side, motionless, pressed close to the Captain, also immobile. Even in the beams of lamplight, which washed out colors and heightened the contrast between objects, Trip could see the ripped leg of Archer's uniform, the swollen and darkened limb it once covered. That neither had responded to their approach—and that Mila had not been able to provide power to the lamps—added weight to the icy lump already in his stomach.

Mila was closest and Trip pressed his fingers to her neck. Almost instantly he was rewarded with a steady, throbbing pulse and he was so relieved he nearly went boneless. She didn't wake up when he shook her or called her name, but at least she wasn't dead. Trip glanced across the darkness to Malcolm, who was kneeling over Archer, feeling for a pulse. He did not wear the same look of relief Trip had.

"Well?" the engineer pressed, on the knife edge.

Reed made eye contact with him, the expression unreadable. "I can't tell," he finally answered, and Trip didn't know if he was lying or not. "Doctor, in here!" Malcolm called, hearing the skittering of feet on rocks.

Trip pulled Mila out of the way, almost cradling her off to the side, while Phlox dropped to the ground beside Archer. Some commanding _he_ was doing, as the highest ranking officer on the mission, he thought bitterly. His throat was suddenly so dry he wasn't sure he could even speak.

Voice forced its way out. "Is he...?"

Phlox peered at his scanner pensively, then reached for his kit. Trip briefly closed his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. A dead man didn't need medicine. "Not yet," the doctor replied, grimly. He pulled out a hypospray and pressed it to the Captain's neck. "This should help stabilize him, but we must get him back to the ship immediately."

Malcolm nodded his understanding. "I'll get Travis," he announced, ducking out.

Phlox turned his scanner on Mila, but went back to Archer after just a few moments. "She appears to be uninjured," he informed Trip distractedly. Obviously she was the lesser of his concerns at the moment.

He wanted to ask why she wouldn't wake up, then, but the doctor was frowning at the scanner he held over Archer and Trip didn't want to disturb him. The crunching of boots on rock indicated Malcolm had returned, Travis in tow. Trip and the helmsman gently maneuvered Archer out of the cave, Phlox hovering over their every step. Mila, being considerably lighter and less injured than the Captain, was hefted by Reed, who was the most likely of all of them to drop his burden and start shooting should the need arise. In the waning light of the sun Archer looked even worse, and Trip wished he could look anywhere but at the discolored, purple leg or the deathly pale face.

The trip back to _Enterprise_ was the longest shuttlepod ride he could ever recall. Travis dealt with the helm; Phlox knelt between his patients, strapped onto the two benches in back, and murmured instructions over his communicator to his staff in Sickbay. Malcolm seemed to be concentrating on not throwing up every time they hit a patch of turbulence. Which left Trip with nothing to do but worry, sharp and tangled threads coiling and snapping in his mind, one on top of the other. He didn't even realize he kept turning restlessly between the view of the ship through the front window and the crewmembers laid out in back, until Reed grabbed his twisting chair with a look that said he would pop Trip's head off if he didn't sit still.

But Trip couldn't be still, even after they'd returned to the ship. Phlox threw him out of Sickbay for his relentless pacing. T'Pol threw him off the Bridge for it as well. Lt. Hess couldn't very well throw him out of Engineering, but she tactfully suggested that perhaps he should get some rest, and by the way, his nervous energy was making the staff jumpy. So Trip was reduced to pacing in his quarters, where the only objection came in the form of Porthos's occasional whine.

What had happened on that sandy planet? Phlox said it looked like the Captain had been bitten by something poisonous, and he and Mila had obviously taken shelter inside the cave to wait out the storm that blocked communication from them. That much Trip could at least understand. But why was Mila unconscious? When had she passed out? How had Archer managed to survive as long as he did, with that serious of an injury? Not that Trip wasn't grateful for that last part; no matter what happened next, what call he got from Phlox, he knew Jon would rather have left this universe from _Enterprise_ than from a dark cave on an alien world.

He didn't need to catalog what he felt for Jon; they'd been friends and colleagues for over ten years, saved each other's lives and pride more times than he could count. He was like the older brother Trip had always wanted, only they got to skip right to the part where they were comfortable friends as adults without all the irritating childhood memories of fighting on family vacations and humiliating each other in front of girls.

But Mila was different. At first he hated her; she irritated him more than he could possibly say. Then somehow, they had become friends—despite the superior attitude she presented, he realized they both found the same things to be important. She never shirked her duty, staying up all night along with him to fix a critical problem on the ship or to assure the return of a crewmember, even someone she didn't know (or didn't like). Her family was everything to her, and, per Venkii tradition, _Enterprise_ was, quite literally, now her family as well. Even if she sometimes gave the impression she would rather sit inside an isolation booth to do her job rather than interact with anyone _on_ the ship. One way or another, he wasn't quite sure how exactly, she had gone from being a pain in the a-s to someone he looked forward to seeing every day, from someone he was glad to leave at the end of his shift to someone he wanted to spend more time with off-duty. A _lot_ more time.

He cared about a lot of the people on the ship, though, counted them as his friends and looked forward to reminiscing with them when they were both old and grey—yet he knew that the very nature of their job meant the odds were fairly high that someday, one of them wouldn't come back from an away mission or survive an accident on the ship. But _knowing_ that was a far cry from _accepting_ it, especially when that someday... might be today.

Trip was so lost in his thoughts that he jumped six inches when his comm sounded. It was Hoshi. " _Commander, T'Pol just got a call from Phlox. He says to join them in_ —"

"On my way!" he hollered in response before sprinting out the door.

 

He nearly stumbled over the First Officer in the hall and forced himself to fall in beside her steady, measured steps when what he wanted to do was continue running at top speed to the Sickbay. "Did Phlox say anything--?" he probed hopefully.

T'Pol gave him a look. "Merely a request that I report to Sickbay, and a suggestion that you do the same."

Knowing it was futile to ask, Trip did so anyway. "Did he sound, you know, happy, or...?"

"I am... not equipped to judge Denobulan vocal modulation," the Vulcan replied. Not so long ago this response would have frustrated Trip, made him think she didn't care. But now he knew differently, knew how much she did care about Archer, and he understood her statement was more akin to a human refusing to speak their hopes for fear of 'jinxing' them. Together they walked silently down the hall.

After what seemed an eternity they reached Sickbay. Phlox's back was to them as they entered, Archer and Mila laid out on biobeds. Trip understood little of what the panels above the beds indicated, but he had learned where the heartbeat indicator was, and both of theirs were beating steadily. That seemed like a good sign to him, but he withheld giving in to his relief just yet.

"Doctor," T'Pol prompted, and Trip thought he detected the slightest bit of impatience her voice. Oddly enough the thought calmed him.

Phlox turned as though he hadn't heard them come in. "Ah, Commanders," he greeted inscrutably. "I am pleased to report that I believe Captain Archer will make a full recovery."

"Well, thank G-d for that," breathed Trip. Beside him T'Pol's posture relaxed a fraction of an inch.

"The speed at which you were able to synthesize an anti-venom was quite remarkable, Doctor," T'Pol complimented him.

Phlox shook it off modestly. "The local population on the planet were instrumental in obtaining a cure," he told her. "They were extremely cooperative and concerned."

"I will be certain to note that in my log," T'Pol assured him. "How long until the Captain is conscious?"

"Several more hours, I believe," Phlox replied, looking over Archer's quiet, slightly less pale form speculatively. "The poison was widespread in his system, but I believe there will be no permanent effect. The most difficult part may be keeping him on light duties until he is fully healed," the doctor added wryly.

Trip didn't realize he'd drifted to the foot of Mila's bed until he felt her limp, slightly cool hand in his. To be honest he hadn't listened much to the doctor's explanation once he'd said Jon would be okay; biology had never been his strong suit. He had a more pressing question. "What about Mila? She get bit, too?" It seemed unlikely, but he hoped if he threw out an incorrect assumption Phlox might be quicker to contradict him with the truth.

"Ah. Ms. Archelus," the doctor non-answered instead, turning his attention to the young woman. Trip carefully let go of her hand as T'Pol joined them. "All the scans and tests that I've run indicate that she is almost perfectly healthy."

"Almost?" Trip asked, confused and worried.

"Oh, slight dehydration, exposure, undernourishment," Phlox replied, as though these things were of little concern. "All easily dealt with. They should be completely alleviated within just a few hours."

"So when's she gonna wake up?" Trip persisted, hoping he didn't sound as impatient as he felt. Hearing from the doctor that she was okay was one thing; seeing those blue-green eyes flutter open and narrow at him in annoyance for his hovering was another thing entirely, and the only one that would really set him at ease.

"I'm not sure," Phlox admitted, and Trip looked up at him in sudden alarm.

"Please explain, Doctor," T'Pol insisted.

Phlox shrugged a little bit, helplessly. "According to all the tests I've run, Ms. Archelus should _not_ be unconscious. She's suffered no injuries, no trauma, no infections. Yet she does not respond. I have even given her very mild doses of certain stimulants, which seem to have no effect."

The fear that had begun to move out of Trip's heart ran back with a vengeance. "Well, what's wrong with her?" he demanded of Phlox, even though the doctor had just finished telling them that basically, he had no idea.

The Denobulan looked pensive. "The only anomaly I've noted so far is in her brainwave patterns." He called a file up onto the nearest computer monitor, full of snaking lines that frustratingly made no sense to Trip. "The brainwave patterns of Venkii females are unlike any in our medical databases," he began, "no doubt due to their enhanced ability to... commune with electronic systems. Currently, Ms. Archelus's brainwaves are exhibiting significant differences from her usual pattern." A second picture appeared beside the first, not that it helped Trip to understand anything better. "There is a great increase in the percentage of theta waves."

"Do you have any theories as to the significance of this, Doctor?" T'Pol asked, saving Trip the trouble of snapping, "What the h—l does _that_ mean?!"

"In an ordinary human," Phlox replied thoughtfully, "this might indicate she was undergoing a very deep meditative trance."

"She's in a _trance_?" Trip sputtered skeptically.

"It was my understanding that the Venkii women have a well-developed discipline of meditation," the doctor remarked. "I believe it is considered imperative to maintain their focus in the face of continuous information bombardment. It would seem," he added, "that Ms. Archelus placed herself in a trance, quite deeply." He seemed more intrigued than anything else.

"And just _why_ would she do that?" Trip questioned, gritting his teeth as he struggled to remain calm. Phlox liked to take a roundabout approach to explanations sometimes.

"I can only hypothesize," the doctor warned them, "but it might be considered a kind of... survival technique." Trip stared at him. "The body uses considerably less energy when in this meditative state, requiring fewer nutrients, less water. She might have induced this trance as a way of conserving resources, presumably until assistance arrived."

"That is not logical," T'Pol interjected. "Ms. Archelus was well aware that the storm which prevented communication with _Enterprise_ would not last more than three days, and she and the Captain had more than enough water to survive that length of time, if it were rationed."

"They didn't even use up what they had," Trip put in, mystified. "Mila's canteen was more than half full of water, and the Captain's still had some in it, too."

"Additionally, it would seem that inducing this unconsciousness would place Ms. Archelus and the Captain in greater danger," T'Pol continued. "The Captain was obviously not in a position to act should circumstances necessitate it. Also, Ms. Archelus's inability to communicate with _Enterprise_ after the storm, and to make use of our transporters, would prolong the time needed to rescue and treat the Captain."

"As to the exact motive, Commander, I'm afraid I can't help you," Phlox pointed out with a sigh. "It's possible the Venkii requirement for electronic data is to blame—perhaps the information on the scanner they carried was insufficient to maintain her, and she chose to reduce her need with a trance. Or perhaps," he added carefully, "she merely... overreacted to the undoubtedly difficult circumstances she found herself in. Alone in the dark with a critically ill person she had no way of assisting, unable to communicate with the ship..."

Trip's eyes flashed as the doctor trailed off. "Mila did _not_ panic," he stated firmly.

Phlox tried to soothe him. "The situation _was_ extremely trying, Commander, and Ms. Archelus had not had the extensive training that most of the crew have," he pointed out. "I am certainly not implying a character flaw in any way—"

"No," Trip interrupted, with great certainty. "I'm not sayin' Mila probably wasn't scared out of her mind down there." And that alone was going to keep him up for the next few nights. "But she would _not_ throw herself into a coma, leavin' Jon all alone down there, unless she had a d—n good reason."

Phlox didn't want to argue about it, as they had no way of knowing the answer at the moment. "In any event," he continued, drawing them back on track, "if Ms. Archelus induced the trance herself, I would presume she included some kind of subconscious... timer, if you will, to rouse herself at some set point, or with some set stimuli. I have given her a data pad, as you can see"—he pointed to the small device tucked under her palm opposite Trip—"tied into the ship's computers, in case the trigger she set was evidence she had returned to _Enterprise_." He looked soberly at T'Pol. "However, if she does not regain consciousness within twenty-four hours, Commander, I would like your permission to contact the Venkii, to see if they may have further information."

"Of course," T'Pol assured him. "Please keep us informed, Doctor."

"Certainly."

Trip wasn't in the proper mindset to appreciate the 'we' in T'Pol's statement. He was too preoccupied with staring down at Mila's apparently sleeping face, wondering what the h—l had caused her to turn off all the lights, shut them all out... and how long it was going to last. "Commander," T'Pol said coolly, and Trip turned to ask if he could stick around Sickbay a little longer. "Perhaps, if your presence would not be detrimental to the patients, you would prefer to stay and... monitor them for a brief while?"

His smile was ragged but grateful. "Yeah, I'd appreciate that, T'Pol," he confirmed. "If I won't be in the Doc's way," he added hopefully, glancing at Phlox.

"As long as you refrain from pacing, Commander," the doctor answered jovially.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I didn’t finish this one! Thinking Jon was going to die, Mila exercises one of the most esoteric abilities of Venkii women, to become pregnant just from touching someone—as she talked about in “The Christmas Episode.” But then Jon doesn’t die, and Mila’s pregnant with his baby, and Trip has a lot of conflicting emotions about all this.
> 
> That’s all for the Venkii, and for all my Enterprise series. Next I'll be posting some Smallville stories.


End file.
